


Drugs, Bars and Backseats of Cars

by daggertattoos



Series: Begin Again [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Drunk Mickey, Gallavich, M/M, and he's not exactly saying yes or no, because mickey is vulnerable as fuck, does this count as non-con?, end of season 3/early season 4, i tried i'm sorry, its not smut but its something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggertattoos/pseuds/daggertattoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fuck, Mick.”</p>
<p>Then, Mickey fucking freezes.</p>
<p>“Ian?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drugs, Bars and Backseats of Cars

**Author's Note:**

> the first part of a series of non-related one-shots where Ian and Mickey basically get back together or something along those lines
> 
> (also the title is from Kill Me by The Pretty Reckless, and that lyric inspired this fic so go give it a listen!)

Mickey's never been a fan of hard drugs. Sure, he'll light up a joint at the end of almost everyday because it hardly makes him feel anything anymore and yeah, he'll say yes when someone offers him acid more often than not just for the hell of it and well, sometimes he'll go for a little ecstasy if he's feeling really shitty and needs a pick me up, but he makes a point to stay away from the shit that could really fuck him up, just because he thinks he's a good person like that.

But not tonight. Tonight, he realises his ass has been planted on a bar stool at the Alibi for the past couple of hours, downing endless beers and a couple of tequila shots that Kevin had sent his way when he looked like he was seconds away from blowing his fucking brains out. Tonight, his mind is flooded with flashes of bright red hair and dusty freckles and the palest fucking skin he's ever laid eyes on. Tonight, he needs a little something extra to distract him from the fact that his heart is fucking broken, the fact that he even has a heart in the first place and the fact that the only person who could fix him was the same person who made him fall apart.

Its not like he could blame Ian entirely. It was mostly his fault, if he really thinks about it. He's the one with a homophobic asshole for a dad, he's the one who fucked a Russian prostitute, he's the one who got married to said prostitute, he's the one who knocked her up – well, he's not really sure about that one but he figures he might as well take the blame for it too – and he's the one who couldn't admit how he really feels about Ian, he's the one who beat the shit out of Ian because of it and he's the one who couldn't get the fucking words out of his mouth to make Ian stay. 

But still, he decides to blame the boy with the red hair and pretty smile because he figures its a hell of a lot easier than trying to find some form of punishment for himself that was as bad as all the shit he did and he guesses losing Ian – not that he ever really had him in the first place – is punishment enough.

But then again, Mickey is a masochist. Always has been. And as much as he wants to hate Ian, as much as he wants to say its Ian's fucking fault for running away, for leaving him in this shithole, he knows he'll always end up blaming himself because that's the only way he can ever feel like he's somewhat good. So when he sees the neat lines of white powder at one of the tables in the far corner of the Alibi, far enough for Kevin to pretend that he can't see the assholes snorting cocaine in his bar, Mickey decides that maybe that's exactly the kind of distraction he needs.

He gets up, his hand immediately gripping the counter because the tequila is finally taking effect and for the first time in a long time, the alcohol is hitting him pretty hard, so he has to blink a couple of times, shaking his head ever so lightly to clear his vision. He heads straight towards the small booth, stumbling over his own feet a little and when he finally gets there – it feels like ages with the way his feet are dragging behind him – all he has to do is shoot a sharp glance at whoever's at the table, he really doesn't give a fuck who it is, he just knows they're scared shitless at the sight of his famous Mickey Milkovich death glare and his scowl turns into something that resembled a grin, a demonic one at that, as they immediately make room for him, practically shoving the coke in his face.

He's thankful for that because between the amount of alcohol in him and the fact that he hasn't slept for at least four nights, he can hardly find the energy to even sit up straight. He doesn't know who hands him the rolled up bill, but he mutters a small thanks and immediately sucks in a line of the white crystals, the drugs working their way into his body. The first hit is harder than he expects, his eyes squeezing shut as the substance burns like a motherfucker through his nostrils. After the initial jolt is over, he lets out a shaky breath but bends down to inhale another strip of the sparkling grains. He feels a laugh bubbling up his throat and at this point, he really doesn't give a shit who's watching him, he just lets a shiver travel up his spine as the cocaine lights up the darkest corners of his mind.

It almost feels like someone had wrapped him up in a cocoon of bliss because he just feels so goddamn happy and its just the thing he needs to forget– _Fuck._

Mickey doesn't know if its the drugs or if its just his own mind playing tricks on him, but he could've sworn he just saw a flash of red hair walk past him. Then, he laughs. _Fuck_. There's no fucking way Ian would ever come back to this shithole, not when he got the chance to get out, so yeah, its probably the drugs making him see things and its probably his own subconscious trying to make him believe that Ian would come back for him because it makes him feel a little better. So, he figures maybe he's had enough cocaine for a lifetime and maybe enough alcohol for the night, so he waves his fingers in a small salute at the guys with the coke and he pushes himself away from the table, his hand immediately gripping at the closest thing he can reach to steady himself and when he's as balanced as he can possibly get, he looks up to see his fingers grasping at the sleeve of someone's shirt, the bright red hair he saw earlier almost blinding his eyes.

“The fuck?” he mutters to himself, squinting his eyes to get a better view but the toxic in his system blurs his vision too much that he can't even make out the simplest features of the guy, but it scares him enough to push the guy away, his own legs carrying him out of the bar as quickly as they can.

Mickey presses his back to the brick wall of the alley beside the bar, his mouth gaping as he breathes in the cold Chicago air and it tastes of beer and smoke and hopelessness, and he thinks that maybe he should've stuck to his rule of not doing hard drugs because now, he can barely stand up straight and he's seeing ghosts of his past and he's probably gonna wake up with the worst fucking hangover in the world and he really doesn't need that kind of shit in his life, so he mentally punches himself in the face because he can't find the physical strength to actually do it and he'd probably get locked up in a psych ward if anyone saw him trying to beat the shit out of himself, even if he was hopped up on drugs.

And Jesus, he really fucking regrets the cocaine because now, he sees a man towering over him, a blurry dark figure in his eyes but the goddamn red hair is like a fucking siren, the only thing shining in the blacked out lane, and he curses himself and his stupid brain for making all this shit up because he knows it can't be Ian. Hell, it probably isn't anyone. He's probably staring into thin air but he swings his fist at the figure anyway and he's surprised when his hand slams against a firm chest.

“Who the fuck are you?” Mickey tries to sound angry, but in his fucked up state, it comes out more like a whine. What a fucking baby. “Leave me alone.”

He expects the person to leave, or at least, make an attempt to move because he's Mickey fucking Milkovich, but maybe being intoxicated takes the edge off of him and he probably looks like a 13-year old getting drunk for the first time, so he's taken aback when the person says, “No,” in the raspiest voice he's ever heard, like the guy had been smoking a whole fucking lot of ciggies and probably cried a little and maybe swallowed a burning torch, and Mickey gulps, the sound of the voice going straight to his cock.

Ignoring the stir in his jeans, Mickey musters up enough force to shove the guy again, this time yelling out, “Fuck off,” in an icy tone and he actually manages to sound slightly threatening this time, which is a good thing, because he's starting to get a little freaked out at the redheaded figure in front of him, the guy reminding him way too much of Ian and he came here tonight to forget about all that dark shit, not to be harassed by some fucking doppelgänger who won't leave him the fuck alone.

The guy is stronger than Mickey is, at least right now anyway, so he barely flinches at the push, simply sighing at Mickey's failed attempt to get rid of him again, then he runs his hand through his red hair and _fuck_ , Ian used to do that all the time and Mickey can't stand this bullshit anymore, so he gathers all the energy left in his body, pulling himself off the wall and he starts to move forward, to move away from this ghost, but he barely gets an inch away when his back is slammed back against the bricks, hands on both sides of his face and he doesn't know why, but he lets this stranger slot his leg between his own thighs and he immediately feels a rock hard dick brushing against his own, which is now equally as hard. Then, there are lips on his mouth, the softest fucking lips he's ever felt and he doesn't really have anything much to compare to because Ian's the only one he'd ever kissed before and these lips felt just as good as his and now he's convinced that his mind is making this all up because this guy is like a carbon copy of Ian, but its not Ian. Its fucking not.

But, Ian or not, Mickey can't seem to pull away from the guy, because soft kisses quickly turn to hard, bruising bites and it turns Mickey on that much more, so much that his back arches off the wall, practically sticking to the guy's body and he takes that as a good sign because he feels a hand run down his thigh, then the hand gives his cock a quick squeeze and before he comes in his pants like a fucking teenager, he pushes the guy off before his lips can reach the base of his throat, where Ian had left way too many marks, marks that were supposed to mean _something_ , marks that meant he belonged to Ian and Ian belonged to him, until reality got in the way and fucked it all up.

Mickey knows he has to get away, stop this whole thing before it gets really fucked up, but, this guy is a relentless little shit and his hands are already sliding under the waistband of Mickey's jeans and Mickey groans, in pleasure or in protest, he's not too sure anymore, but the guy takes that as a yes, plunging his hand straight into Mickey's pants, his fingers immediately curling around Mickey's shaft and Mickey whimpers a little and he doesn't know why, but when the guy leans down and whispers in his ear, “Car?”, he just nods in agreement, even though there's still a part of him that's screaming that this is all a hallucination, that he's probably been dry humping thin air the past couple of minutes, but he figures if he's gonna lose his mind, he might as well get a good fuck in the process.

Its all sort of a blur and well, if he's honest, the entire night has been a fucking blur, but its pretty clear to him now that he's not insane, that there is in fact a real man here, because there's no way the dick up his ass couldn't be real. Maybe its the fact that he's been relying on his own fingers for the past few weeks and hasn't exactly gotten laid since Ian left that makes it feel so good, but he really doesn't give a fuck because all he wants to feel now is the pulsing cock pounding into him as a hand pumps his own dick in rhythm.

Mickey's on all fours, but he uses what little strength he has left to grind himself back onto the guy's cock, rocking back and forth, making his own rhythm and he figures it feels pretty fucking good for the guy too, because he feels fingernails dig into the skin of his hips, right where there were already crescent-shaped scars from when Ian grabbed him a little too hard and he hears, “Fuck, Mick.”

Then, Mickey fucking freezes.

Mickey's heard that way too many times. The way he says it, almost breathing it out onto Mickey's skin, his voice shaking just a little. The way he thrusts a little deeper, hitting Mickey right at the best fucking part, as if he knew exactly where it was. The way he immediately leans down, lips pressing to the back of Mickey's shoulder, his teeth grazing the sweaty skin.

Mickey's not exactly in the position for confrontation, so even though he's almost at his peak, he can't go through with this, so he crawls forward, out of the guy's hold, feeling empty after the guy's dick slides out. Then, he gathers himself at the end of the backseat, pulling his legs up to hug them to his chest and now, he's pretty sure he's fucking sober because his head stopped spinning and he can see a little better now and what he sees is a tall man with red hair that's all messed up now and green eyes that are almost popping out of his skull and porcelain skin that's dusted with the lightest freckles. And Mickey knows every inch of his face, every curve, every crinkle, every mark, every scar, because he's stared at that face a hundred times over, even if he would never admit it to himself, he knows he has and he knows it couldn't be anyone else.

“Ian?” He's not sure if its meant to be a statement or a question, but either way, Mickey's voice comes out cracked, showing just how goddamn broken he is and he fucking hates himself for letting anyone see that part of him, even if it was Ian fucking Gallagher.

“Its me,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, as if saying it out loud would make the entire world shatter around him.

Ian hadn't planned any of this. Hell, he didn't even want to come back. But he fucked up in the Army and he didn't really have much money and well, there was nowhere else to go but home. He'd stolen a car from somewhere, he can't really remember, and he drove nonstop back to the shitty South Side, and he knew he didn't wanna go home right away, and he knew he couldn't go to Mickey, so he ended up parking outside the Alibi, because he figured the only people that would notice him there would be Kevin and Veronica, and he knew he could trust them to keep their mouths shut for at least tonight. He guessed there was a chance that Frank would be there too, but he'd probably be passed out on the floor or be too wasted to even recognise Ian. What he didn't count on was the fact that Mickey would be there, high as a kite and drunk off his ass. If anyone could hold their alcohol, it was Mickey, but Ian figured he had too much for even him to handle and with the coke he was snorting, it wasn't a surprise to see him practically falling over and Ian knew it was dumb, but he hung around the guy, just to see whether he was sober enough to acknowledge him and he was almost convinced Mickey had no idea, so he was about to leave when Mickey grabbed his shirt for support, trying to stand up and when Mickey looked up at him, with his dilated pupils and his skin drained of blood, Ian knew there was no way he could leave again, not like this. He could tell Mickey was scared, or at least confused, and he probably should've left it alone, let him think it was the drugs playing a trick on him, but being Ian, he followed Mickey out to the backstreet, and when Mickey asked who he was, he couldn't find the heart to answer and when Mickey told him to leave, he couldn't move an inch. He knew what he was risking, what he was getting himself into and he knew it was fucked up and he knew that Mickey was vulnerable and upset and he shouldn't have taken advantage of him, but he also knew that whatever he and Mickey had was always going to be fucked up so why stop now? He knew it was wrong to kiss Mickey like that, but it felt so right and he knew Mickey wanted him too, with the way his body was reacting, even if he didn't really know who it was. It was a long shot when he asked if Mickey wanted to move things to his car, but he knew all of Mickey's weak spots and he knew that Mickey would say yes. He knew that all of this was the lowest of the lows and he was probably going to hell for it, but once he had his dick in Mickey, he didn't care anymore. A quick fuck and Mickey would leave, just like he always did. He figured there was no harm if Mickey thought he was just some stranger who wanted to hook up. But he didn't realise how well Mickey knew him, how Mickey had memorised everything about him, the way he moved, the marks he left, the things he said. He hadn't counted on the fact that Mickey would actually remember him. So when Mickey suddenly stops and pulls away from him, he knows its all fucked up now.

He watches as Mickey curls himself up into a ball, as if trying to keep himself safe from Ian, and Ian can't really blame him, he's probably scared shitless and he probably thinks he's going out of his mind, and Ian's heart breaks a little more when Mickey speaks, his voice like a baby's when he says, “Ian?”

Ian nods, but with the way Mickey's eyes are glossed over, he's not sure if Mickey can see him, so he says, “Its me.” Then he moves forward, but Mickey immediately flinches, practically throwing himself back against the side of the car. He decides to stay put, not wanting to risk losing Mickey like this. So he holds his hands up in surrender, then he repeats himself, slowly this time, “Its me, Mickey. Its Ian.”

Mickey shakes his head, refusing to believe what was right in front of his eyes. He doesn't know why, because ever since Ian left, he's been staring up at the ceiling every night, wishing on all his goddamn lucky stars for the universe to bring Ian back to him, but now that Ian's right in front of him, he doesn't know why all the nerves in his body are screaming at him to get the fuck out. Maybe its because the last time he and Ian saw each other, he almost had Ian in his hands but he let it go because he couldn't finish one fucking sentence. Maybe its because he knows that whenever it comes down to the two of them, its all kinds of fucked up shit that always ended up going straight to hell. Maybe its because he was finally getting used to the idea that Ian left him and wasn't coming back for him, and Ian being here right now is fucking up all his endless self-torture. And maybe its because he sort of figures he doesn't deserve redemption or a second chance so there's no way in the world that Ian would come back to him and give him that chance. So he lets his head drop, unable to look at the guy anymore, and he says, “ _No._ Ian left me.”

Ian feels his heart being ripped out of his chest and really, it should be Mickey that felt bad because it was his fucking fault that Ian left in the first place, but seeing him like this, like shattered glass, he wonders who was _really_ hurt when he left. He got out of the South Side, got to chase his dreams of enlisting, even if he did screw it up but hey, at least he got the chance. Mickey was still stuck in the hood, slowly turning into one of those drunk assholes at the Alibi, losing the only thing he actually ever gave a shit about. So he realises that maybe he's the one who fucked up, then he swallows his pride, his goddamn ego, and he says, “Yeah, I left you. I know I did. And I'm _so_ fucking sorry.”

Mickey's head lifts at that, eyes blinking as he stares blankly at Ian.

“You hear me, Mick?” Ian says, crawling forward to grab at Mickey's face, keeping their gazes locked. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

He expects Mickey to lunge at him, maybe kick him in the balls, or at the very least shove him off, but he doesn't. He just presses his cheek into Ian's hand, eyelids fluttering at the warm touch and he mutters, “You came back.”

Ian grins at that, his grip on Mickey tightening even more. “'Course I did.”

“Back for good?” is what Mickey asks and Ian freezes a little, because he never thought that far. He knew he was coming back for the night and maybe the next couple of days, but he never really meant to stay, because yeah, he loved his family but they seemed to be alright without him, and he never intended to run into Mickey, but now that he has, now that he has another chance at this, he thinks that maybe he will stay, so he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Mickey's lips, then he says, “For good.”

That makes Mickey feel better, as a dopey smile grows on his face and he realises he's still pretty wasted and he'll probably believe anything anyone says, so for good measure, he says, “If you leave again-”

Ian cuts him off with another kiss and Christ, he tastes better than any drink Mickey had that night and the kiss makes him feel more alive than any drugs he's ever had, then Ian pulls away, lips pink and shiny, and he says, “I won't. I swear.”

Mickey brings a hand up to touch Ian's face, just to be sure that he's really there and he smiles when he feels blood pulsing under Ian's cheek, a sign that he's real and he's alive and he's back. Then he realises Ian's practically lying on top of him and he feels their dicks being pressed together between them, so he glances down, then back up at Ian, a crazed look on his face and he asks, “So, uh, you wanna finish up or...”

“Fuck you, Mick,” Ian says, laughing loudly and now he really feels like he's home and he knows he could probably never leave again, not without Mickey by his side.

Mickey snorts at that, gesturing to their joined bodies and he says, “Be my guest.” And now he realises that maybe he and Ian aren't so fucked up after all and maybe this time, they could really make it work.

**Author's Note:**

> comment!


End file.
